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TEMPLE BAR 
THEN AND NOW 



£ 



A. EDWARD NEWTON 

"oak knoll" 
Daylesford, Pennsylvania 



<* 



Copyright, 1915, by A. Edward Xewton 



CLA41800» 



r II 1915 



TEMPLE BAR THEN AND NOW 

The King of England is not a frequent visitor to 
the city of London, meaning by "the city" that square 
mile or so of old London whose political destinies are 
in the keeping of the Lord Mayor, of which the Bank 
of England is almost the exact center, St. Paul's the 
highest ground and Temple Bar the western boundary. 

It might be said that the King is the only man in 
England who has no business in "the city." His 
duties are in the West End — in Westminster, but to 
"the city" he goes on state occasions, and it so hap- 
pened that several years ago I chanced to be in London 
on one of them. 

I had reached London only the night before, and I 
did not know that anything out of the ordinary was 
going on until over my breakfast of bacon and eggs — 
and such bacon! — I unfolded my Times and learned 
that their Majesties were that morning going in state 
to St. Paul's Cathedral to give thanks for their safe 
return from India. It was not known that they had 
ever been in any great peril in India, but Royal prog- 
resses are, I suppose, always attended with a certain 
amount of danger; at any rate the King and Queen 
had reached home safely and wanted to give thanks, 
according to historic precedent, in St. Paul's, and the 
ceremony was set for that very morning. 



1 



Inquiring at the office of my hotel in Piccadilly, I 
learned that the Royal procession would pass the door 
in something over an hour and that the windows of a 
certain drawing room were at my disposal. It would 
have been more comfortable to view the Royal party 
from a drawing room of the "Carlton," but what I 
wanted to see would take place at Temple Bar, so my 
breakfast dispatched, I sallied forth to take up my 
position in the crowded street. 

It was in February; a dark, gloomy, typical London 
morning. The bunting and decorations, everywhere 
apparent, had suffered sadly from the previous night's 
rain and were flapping dismally in the cold, raw air, 
and the streets, though crowded, wore a look of hope- 
less dejection. 

I am never so happy as in London. I know it well, 
if a man can be said to know London well, and its 
streets are always interesting to me, but the Strand is 
not my favorite street. It has changed its character 
sadly in recent years. The Strand no longer suggests 
interesting shops and the best theatres, and I grieve to 
think of the ravages that time and Hall Caine have 
made in the "Lyceum," which was once Irving's, where 
I saw him so often in his, and my, heyday. However. 
my way took me to the Strand, and passing Charing 
Cross I whispered to myself, "Fleet Street has a very 
animated appearance; but the full tide of human ex- 






istence is at Charing Cross," but as I neared the site 
of Temple Bar I observed that, for this morning, at 
any rate, the tide was setting toward "the city." 

My progress through the crowd was slow, but I 
finally reached my objective point, the Griffin, which 
marks the spot where for many centuries Temple Bar 
stood. Taking up my position just in front of the 
rather absurd monument, which forms an "island" 
in the middle of the street, I waited patiently for the 
simple but historic and picturesque ceremony to begin. 
Before long the city dignitaries began to arrive. First 
came the Sheriffs and Aldermen in coaches of state, 
wearing their scarlet and ermine robes. Finally a 
coach appeared, out of the window of which protruded 
the end of the great Mace, emblem of "city" authority, 
and at last the Lord Mayor himself in all his splendor, 
in a coach so wonderful in its gold and color that one 
might have supposed it had been borrowed from 
Cinderella for the occasion 

While I was wondering how many times and under 
what varying conditions this bit of pageantry had been 
enacted on this very spot, a slight wave of cheering 
down the Strand apprised me the approach of the 
Royal procession. The soldiers who lined both sides 
of the street became, at a word of command, more 
immovable than ever, standing at "attention," if that 
is the word which turns men into statues. At the 



same time a band commenced the national anthem, 
and this seemed the signal for the Mayor and his 
attendants to leave their coaches and group them- 
selves just east of the monument. A moment later 
the Royal party, in carriages driven by postilions with 
outriders, swept by, but the state carriage in which 
sat the King and Queen was brought to a halt imme- 
diately in front of the city party. 

The Lord Mayor, carrying his jeweled sword in his 
hand, bowed low before his sovereign, who remained 
seated in the open carriage. Words, I presume, were 
spoken. I saw, rather than heard, the Lord Mayor 
extend his greetings and tender his sword to the King, 
who saluting, placed his hand upon its hilt and seemed 
to congratulate the "city" upon its being in such safe 
keeping. The crowd cheered, not very heartily, but 
history was in the making, and the true Londoner, 
although he might not like to confess it, still takes a 
lively interest in these scenes which link him to the 
past. 

While the city officials, their precious sword — it was 
a gift from Queen Elizabeth — still in their keeping, 
were returning to their coaches and taking their places, 
there was a moment's delay which gave me a good 
opportunity of observing the King and his Consort. 
He looked very like his photograph and equally like 
his cousin, the Czar of Russia. He had a weak and 



utterly expressionless face and seemingly was much 
bored by the proceedings. The Queen looked every 
inch — not a Queen but a very plain English woman, 
without either grace or beauty. She is not popular 
in London. I have never heard her spoken of with 
either affection or enthusiasm, but I noticed in the 
description of the scene, in the papers next day, they 
commented loyally upon what they termed the "gra- 
cious charm of Queen Mary." 

The Lord Mayor and his suite, having resumed 
their places, were driven rapidly down Fleet Street 
toward St. Paul's, the Royal party following them. 
The whole ceremony at Temple Bar, the shadow of 
former ceremonies hardly more real, had not occu- 
pied much over five minutes. The crowd dispersed, 
Fleet Street and the Strand immediately resumed 
their wonted appearance except for the bunting and 
decorations, and I was left to discuss with myself the 
question, "What does this King business really mean?" 

Many years ago Andrew Carnegie wrote a book, 
"Triumphant Democracy," in which as I vaguely 
remember he likened our form of government to a 
pyramid standing on its base, while a pyramid repre- 
senting England was standing on its apex. There is 
no doubt whatever that a pyramid looks more com- 
fortable on its base than on its apex, but let us drop 
these facile illustrations of strength and weakness and 



ask ourselves, "In what way are we better oft', polit- 
ically, than the English?" 

In theory, the King, from whom no real authority 
flows, may seem a little bit ridiculous, but in practice 
how admirably the English have learned to use him. 
If he is great enough to exert a powerful influence on 
the nation for good, his position gives him an immense 
opportunity. How great his power is we do not know 
— it is not written down in books, but he has it. If, 
on the other hand, he has not the full confidence of 
the people, if they mistrust his judgment, his power 
is circumscribed; wise men rule and Majesty does as 
Majesty is told to do. "We think of our Prime 
Minister as the wisest man in England for the time 
being," says Bagehot. The English scheme of govern- 
ment permits, indeed necessitates, her greatest men 
entering politics, as we call it. Is it so with us? 

Our plan, however excellent it may be in theory, in 
practice results in our having constantly to submit 
ourselves, those of us who must be governed, to capital 
operations at the hands of amateurs who are selected 
for the job by drawing straws. That we escape with 
our lives is due rather to our hardy constitution than 
to the skill of the operators. 

To keep the King out of mischief he may be set the 
innocuous task of visiting hospitals, opening exposi- 
tions or laying corner stones. Tapping a block of 



granite with a silver trowel he declares it to be "well 
and truly laid," and no exception can be taken to the 
masterly manner in which the work is done. Occa- 
sionally, once a year or so, plain Bill Smith, who has 
made a fortune in the haberdashery line, say, bends 
the knee before him and at a tap of a sword across his 
shoulders arises Sir William Smith. Bill Smith was 
not selected for this honor by the King himself. Cer- 
tainly not! The King probably never heard of him, 
but the men who rule the nation, those in authority, 
for reasons sufficient if not good, selected Smith for 
"birthday honors," and he is given a stake in the 
nation. 

And so it goes. The Knight may become a Baronet, 
the Baronet a Lord, the Lord a Duke, this last not 
often now, only for very great service rendered the 
empire, and with each advance in rank comes increase 
of responsibility — in theory at least. Have our 
political theories worked out so well that we are 
justified in making fun of theirs as we sometimes do? 
I think not. After our country has stood as well as 
England has the shocks which seven or ten centuries 
may bring it, we may have the right to say, "We 
order these things better — at home." 

While musing thus, the Strand and Temple Bar of 
a century and a half ago rise up before me, and I notice 
coming along the footway a tall, burly, old man walk- 




Temple Bar in Dr. Johnson's Time 



ing with a rolling gait, dressed in a brown coat with 
metal buttons, knee breeches and worsted stockings, 
with large silver buckles on his clumsy shoes. He 
seems like a wise old fellow, so I approach him and tell 
him who I am and of my perplexities. "What! Sir, 
an American? They are a race of convicts who ought 
to be thankful for anything we allow them short of 
hanging," and then seeing me somewhat disconcerted 
he adds less ferociously, "I would not give half a 
guinea to live under one form of government rather 
than another," saying which he turns into a court off 
Fleet Street and is lost to view. It was only after he 
had disappeared that I realized that I had been speak- 
ing to Dr. Johnson. 

Just when the original posts, bars and chains gave 
way to the building known as Temple Bar, we have no 
means of knowing. Honest John Stow, whose effigy 
in terra cotta still looks down on us from the wall of 
the Church of St. Andrew Undershaft, published his 
famous "Survey of Elizabethan London" in 1598. 
In it he makes scant mention of Temple Bar, and this 
is the more remarkable from the fact that he describes 
so accurately many of the important buildings and 
gives the exact location of every court and lane, every 
pump and well, in the London of his day. 

Stow assures his readers that his accuracy cost him 
many a weary mile's travel and many a hard-earned 



penny, and his authority has never been disputed. 
He refers to the place several times but not to the gate 
itself. "Why this is I have not heard, nor can I con- 
jecture" to use a phrase of his, but we know that a 
building known as Temple Bar must have been stand- 
ing when the "Survey" appeared, for it is clearly indi- 
cated in Aggas' pictorial map of London published a 
generation earlier, otherwise we might infer that in 
Stow's time it was merely what he terms it, a "barre" 
separating the Liberties of London from Westminster 
— the city from the shire. It is obvious that it gets 
its name from that large tract known as the Temple, 
which lies between Fleet Street and the river, long the 
quarters of the Knights Templar, and for centuries 
past the center of legal learning in England. 

Referring to the "new Temple by the Barre," Stow 
tells us that "over against it in the high streets stand- 
eth a payre of stockes," and adds that the whole 
street "from the Barre to the Savoy was commanded 
to be paved in the twenty-fourth year of the reign 
of "King Henry the Sixt," (this sturdy lad, it will be 
remembered, began to "reign" when he was only nine 
months old), with "tole to be taken towards the 
charges thereof." This practice of taking "tole" 
from all non-freemen at Temple Bar continued until 
after the middle of the nineteenth century, and fine 
confusion it must have caused. The charge of two 






pence each time a cart passed the city boundary finally 
aroused such an outcry against the "city turnpike" 
that it was done away with. 'Whoever received this 
revenue must have heartily bewailed the passing of 
the good old days, for a few years before the custom 
was abandoned the toll collected amounted to over 
seven thousand pounds per annum. 

The first reference which seems to suggest a build- 
ing dates back to the time when "Sweet Anne Bullen" 
passed from the Tower to her coronation at West- 
minster, at* which time the Fleet Street conduit poured 
forth red wine and the city waits — or minstrels—" made 
music like a heavenly noyse." We know, too, that it 
was "a rude building," and that it was subsequently 
replaced by a substantial timber structure of classic 
appearance, with a pitched roof, spanning the street, 
and gabled at each end. Old prints show us that it 
was composed of three arches, a large central arch for 
vehicular traffic, with smaller arches, one on each side 
over the footway. All of the arches were provided 
with heavy oaken doors, studded with iron, which could 
be closed at night or when unruly mobs, tempted to 
riot, threatened, and frequently carried out their 
threat, to disturb the peace of the city. 

The city proper terminated at Lud Gate, about half 
way up Ludgate Hill, but the jurisdiction of the city 
extended to Temple Bar, and those residing between 




Old Temple Bar. Demolished in 1666 



the two gates were said to be within the liberties of the 
city and enjoyed its rights and privileges, among them 
that of passing through Temple Bar without paying 
toll. Although Lud Gate was the most important gate 
of the old city, originally forming a part of the old 
London wall, from time immemorial Temple Bar has 
been the great historic entrance to the city. At 
Temple Bar it was usual, upon an accession to the 
throne, upon the proclamation of a peace or the over- 
throw of an enemy, for a state entry to be made into 
the city. The sovereign attended by his trumpeters 
would proceed to the closed gate and demand entrance. 
From the city side would come the inquiry, "Who 
comes here?" and the herald having made reply, the 
Royal party would be admitted and conducted to- the 
Lord Mayor. 

With the roll of years this custom became slightly 
modified. When Queen Elizabeth visited St. Paul's 
to return thanks for the defeat of the Spanish Armada, 
we read that upon the herald and trumpeters having 
announced her arrival at the Gate, the Lord Mayor 
advanced and surrendered the city sword to the Queen, 
who upon returning it to him proceeded to St. Paul's. 
On this occasion, as on all previous occasions, the sov- 
ereign was on horseback, Queen Elizabeth having de- 
clined to ride, as had been suggested, in a vehicle 
drawn by horses, on the ground that it was new fangled 



and effeminate. For James I, for Charles and Crom- 
well and Charles II similar ceremonies were enacted, 
the coronation of Charles II being really magnificent 
and testifying to the joy of England in again having 
a King. 

Queen Anne enters the city in a coach drawn by 
eight horses, "none with her but the Duchess of 
Marlborough, in a very plain garment, the Queen full 
of jewels," to give thanks for the victories of the Duke 
abroad, and so the stately historic procession winds 
through the centuries, always pausing at Temple Bar, 
right down to our own time. 

But to return to the actual "fabrick," as Dr. Johnson 
would have called it: Soon after the accession of 
Charles II we learn that old Temple Bar was marked 
for destruction. It was of wood, and while "newly 
paynted and hanged" for state occasions, it was felt 
that something more worthy of the great city, to 
which it gave entrance, should be erected. Inigo 
Jones was consulted and drew plans for a new gate, 
his idea being the erection of a really triumphal arch, 
but dying soon after, his plan was abandoned. Other 
architects with other plans came forward. At length, 
the King became interested in the project and promised 
money toward its accomplishment, but Charles II was 
an easy promiser, and as the money he promised be- 
longed to someone else, nothing came of it. While the 



project was being thus discussed, the plague broke out, 
followed by the fire which destroyed so much of old 
London, and public attention was so earnestly directed 
to the rebuilding of London itself that the gate, for a 
time, was forgotten. 

Temple Bar had escaped the flames, but the rebuild- 
ing of London occasioned by the fire gave Christopher 
Wren his great opportunity. A new St. Paul's with 
its "mighty mothering dome," a lasting monument to 
his genius, was erected, and churches innumerable, 
whose towers and spires still point the way to heaven, 
instructions which we may suspect are neglected when 
we see how deserted they are, but they serve, at least, 
to add charm and interest to a ramble through the city. 

Great confusion resulted from the fire, but London 
was quick to see that order must be restored, and it is 
much to be regretted that Wren's scheme for replanning 
the entire burned district was not carried out. Fleet 
Street was less than twenty-four feet wide at Temple 
Bar, not from curb to curb, for there was none, but from 
house to house. This was the time to rebuild London; 
although something was done much was neglected, and 
Wren was finally commissioned to build a new gate of 
almost the exact dimensions of the old one. 

The work was begun in 1670 and progressed slowly, 
for it was not finished until two years later. What a 
fine interruption to traffic its rebuilding must have 



occasioned! Constructed entirely of Portland stone, 
the same material as St. Paul's, it consisted, like the 
old one, of three arches, a large flattened center arch 
with small semicircular arches on either side. Above 
the center arch was a large window which gave light 
and air to a spacious chamber within, while on either 
side of the window were niches, in which were placed 
statues of King James and his Queen, Anne of Den- 
mark, on the city side and Charles I and Charles II 
on the Westminster side. 

The curious may wish to know that the mason was 
Joshua Marshall, whose father had been master 
mason to Charles I, that the sculptor of the statues was 
John Bushnell, who died insane, and that the cost of 
the whole, including the statues at four hundred and 
eighty pounds, was but thirteen hundred and ninety- 
seven pounds, ten shillings. 

The fog and soot and smoke of London soon give the 
newest building an appearance of age and mercifully 
bring it into harmony with its surroundings. Almost 
before the new gate was completed it had an appear- 
ance of age, and before it had a chance to grow really 
old there arose a demand for its removal altogether. 
Petitions praying for its destruction were circulated 
and signed. Verse, if not poetry, urging its retention 
was written and printed. 



"If that Gate is pulled down, 'twixt the Court and the 

City, 
You'll blend in one mass, prudent, worthless and 

witty. 
If you league cit and lordling, as brother and brother, 
You'll break order's chain, and they'll war with each 

other. 
Like the Great Wall of China, it keeps out the Tartars, 
From making irruptions, where industry barters, 
Like Samson's Wild Foxes, they'll fire your houses, 
And madden your spinsters, and cousin your spouses. 
They'll destroy in one sweep, both the Mart and the 

Forum. 
Which your fathers held dear, and their fathers before 

'em." 

But attacked by strong city men and defended only 
by sentiment, Temple Bar still continued to impede 
traffic and shut out light and air while the generations 
who fought for its removal passed to their rest. It 
became the subject of jokes and conundrums. Why 
is Temple Bar like a lady's veil? it was asked, the 
answer being that both must be raised (razed) for 
busses. The distinction between a buss and a kiss, 
suggested by Herrick, of whom the eighteenth century 
city man never heard, would have been lost, but we 
know that 



"Kissing and bussing differ both in this, 
We buss our wantons and our wives we kiss." 

No account of Temple Bar would be complete with- 
out reference to the iron spikes above the center of the 
pediment on which occasionally were placed the heads 
of persons executed for high treason. This ghastly 
custom continued down to the middle of the eight- 
eenth century and gave rise to many stories, most of 
them legendary, but which go to prove, were proof 
necessary, that squeamishness was not a common 
fault in the days of the Georges. 

To refer, however briefly, to the taverns which clus- 
tered east and west of Temple Bar and to the authors 
who frequented them, would be to stop the progress of 
this paper — and begin another. Dr. Johnson only 
voiced public opinion when he said that a tavern chair 
is a throne of human felicity. For more than three 
centuries within the shadow of Temple Bar there was 
an uninterrupted flow of wine and wit and wisdom 
with doubtless some wickedness. From Ben Jonson, 
whose favorite resort was "The Devil," adjoining the 
Bar on the south side, down to Tennyson, who fre- 
quented "The Cock," on the north, came the same 
cry, for good talk and good wine. 



"O plump head-waiter at the Cock, 
To which I most resort, 
How goes the time? 'Tis five o'clock, 
Go fetch a pint of port." 

This does not sound like the author of Locksley Hall, 
but it is, and while within the taverns, "the chief 
glory of England, its authors," were writing and 
talking themselves into immortality, just outside there 
ebbed and flowed beneath the arches of Temple Bar, 
east in the morning and west at night, the human 
stream which is one of the wonders of the world. 

Meantime the importance of Temple Bar as a city 
gate was lessening; "a weak spot in our defenses," a wit 
calls it, and points out that the enemy can dash around 
it through the barber shop, one door of w r hich opens 
into the city, the other into the "suburbs," but down 
to the last it continued to play a part in city functions. 
In 1851 it is lit with twenty thousand lamps as the 
Queen goes to a state ball in Guildhall. A few months 
later it is draped in black as the remains of the Iron 
Duke pauses under its arches for a moment on the way 
to their final resting place in St. Paul's Cathedral. 
In a few years we see it draped with the colors of 
England and Prussia when the Princess Royal, as the 
bride of Frederick William, gets her "Farewell" and 
"God Bless You" from the city on her departure for 



Berlin. Five years pass and the young Prince of 
Wales and his beautiful bride, Alexandra, are received 
with wild applause by the mob as their carriage halts 
at Temple Bar, and once again when in February, 
1872, Queen Victoria, the Prince and Princess of 
Wales and their Court go to St. Paul's to return 
thanks for the Prince's happy recovery from a dan- 
gerous illness. 

With this event the history of Temple Bar in its 
old location practically ceases. It was to continue for 
a few years longer a "bone in the throat of Fleet 
Street," but at last its condition became positively 
dangerous, its gates were removed because of their 
weight and its arches were propped up with timbers. 
Finally, in 1877, its removal by the Corporation of 
London was decided upon, and Temple Bar, from time 
immemorial one of London's most notable landmarks, 
disappears, and "the Griffin" on an "island" rises in 
its stead. 

"The ancient site of Temple Bar has been dis- 
figured by Boehm with statues of the Queen and the 
Prince of Wales so stupidly modeled that they look 
like statues out of a Noah's Ark. It is bad enough 
that we should have German Princes foisted upon us, 
but German statues are worse." In this manner 
George Moore refers to the Memorial commonly called 
the "Griffin," which shortly after the destruction of the 



old gate was erected on the exact spot where Temple 
Bar formerly stood. 

It is not a handsome object; indeed, barring the 
Albert Memorial it may be said to represent Victorian 
taste at its worst. It is a high, rectangular pedestal, 
running lengthwise with the street, placed on a small 
island which serves as a refuge for pedestrians crossing 
the busy thoroughfare. On either side are niches in 
which are placed the life-size marble figures described 
by Moore, but this is not all. There are bronze 
tablets let into the masonry showing in basso-rilievo 
incidents in the history of old Temple Bar, with por- 
traits, medallions and other things. This base pedes- 
tal, if so it may be called, is surmounted by a smaller 
pedestal on which is placed a heraldic dragon or griffin 
— a large monster in bronze, which is supposed to guard 
the gold of the city. 

We do not look for beauty in Fleet Street, and we 
know that only in the Victorian sense is this monument 
a work of art, but it has the same interest for us as a 
picture by Frith — it is a human document. Memories 
of the past more real than the actual present crowd 
upon us, and we turn under an archway into the 
Temple Gardens, glad to forget the artistic sins of 
Boehm and his compeers. 

Ask the average Londoner what has become of old 
Temple Bar and he will look at you in blank amaze- 



ment, and then, with an effort of memory, say, 
"They've put it up somewhere in the north." And 
so it is. 

Upon its removal the stones were carefully numbered 
with a view to re-erection, and there was some discus- 
sion as to where the old gate should be located. It is 
agreed now that it should have been placed in the 
Temple Gardens, but for almost ten years the stones, 
about one thousand in number, were stored on a piece 
of waste ground in the Farrington Road. Finally, 
they were purchased by Sir Henry Meux, the rich 
brewer, whose brewery, if out of sight, still indicates 
its presence by the strong odor of malt, at the corner of 
Oxford Street and Tottenham Court Road. Sir Henry 
Meux was the owner of a magnificent country seat, 
"Theobald's Park," near Waltham Cross, about 
twelve miles north of London, and he determined to 
make Temple Bar the principal entrance gate to this 
historic estate. 

So to Theobald's Park, anciently "Tibbals," I bent 
my steps one morning. Being in a reminiscent mood, 
I had intended to follow in the footsteps of Izaak 
Walton, from the site of his shop in Fleet Street just 
east of Temple Bar, and having in the words of the 
gentle angler "stretched my legs up Tottenham Hill," 
taken the old high road into Hertfordshire, but the 
English spring having opened with more than its 



customary severity I decided to go by rail. It was 
raining gently but firmly when my train reached its 
destination, Waltham Cross, and I was deprived of the 
pleasure I had promised myself of reaching Temple 
Bar on foot. An antique fly, drawn by a super- 
annuated horse, was secured at the railway station, 
and after a short drive I was set down before old 
Temple Bar, the gates of which were closed as securely 
against me as ever they had been closed against an 
unruly mob in its old location. 

Driving along a flat and monotonous country road 
one comes on the old gate almost suddenly and ex- 
periences a feeling not of disappointment but of sur- 
prise. The gate does not span the road, but is set 
back a little in a hedge on one side of it, and seems 
large for its setting. One is prepared for a dark, grimy 
portal, whereas the soot and smoke of London have 
been erased from it, and instead one sees an antique, 
creamy-white structure tinted and toned with the 
green of the great trees which overhang it. Prowling 
about in the drenching rain I looked in vain for some 
sign of life. I shouted to King James who looked 
down on me from his niche, and receiving no reply 
addressed his Consort, inquiring how I was to secure 
admittance. 

A porter's lodge on one side, almost hidden in the 
trees, supplied an answer to my question, and giving 



a lusty pull at the bell the door was opened and a slat- 
ternly woman appeared and inquired my business. 
"To see over Temple Bar," I replied. "Hutterly 
himpossible," she said, and I saw at once that tact and 
a coin were required. I used both. " Go up the drive 
to the great 'ouse and hask for the clerk (pronounced 
dark) of the works, Mr. 'Arrison, 'e may let ye hover." 
I did as I was told and had little difficulty with Mr. 
Harrison. The house itself was undergoing extensive 
repairs and alterations. It had recently passed under 
the will of Lady Meux to its present owner, together 
with a fortune of five hundred thousand pounds in 
money. 

Many years ago Henry Meux had married the beauti- 
ful and charming Valerie Langton, an actress, a Gaiety 
girl, in fact, but they had had no children, and when he 
died in 1900 the title became extinct. Thereafter 
Lady Meux, enormously wealthy, without relatives, 
led a retired life, chiefly interested in breeding horses. 
A chance courtesy paid her by the wife of Sir Hed worth 
Lambton, who had recently married, together with the 
fact that he had established a reputation for ability 
and courage, decided her in her thought to make him 
her heir. 

Sir Hedworth, a younger son of the Earl of Durham, 
had early adopted the sea as his profession. He had 
distinguished himself in the bombardment of Alexan- 



dria, and had done something wonderful at Ladysmith. 
He was a hero, no longer a young man, without means 
—who more fitting to succeed to her wealth and name? 
In 1911 Lady Meux died, and this lovely country seat, 
originally a hunting lodge of King James, subsequently 
the favorite residence of Charles I and with a long list 
of royal or noble owners, became the property of the 
gallant sailor. All that he had to do was to forget that 
the name Meux suggested a brewery and exchange it 
for his own, and the great property was his. It reads 
like a chapter out of a romance. Thus it was that the 
house was being thoroughly overhauled for its new 
owner at the time of my visit. 

But I am wandering from Temple Bar. Armed with 
a letter from Mr. Harrison I returned to the gate. 
First, I ascertained that the span of the center arch, 
the arch through which for two centuries the traffic 
of London had passed, was but twenty-one feet "in 
the clear" as an architect would say; next, that the 
span of small arches on either side was only four feet 
six inches. No wonder that there was always "con- 
gestion" at Temple Bar. I was also anxious to see the 
room above, the room in which formerly Messrs. 
Child, when it had adjoined their banking house, had 
stored their old ledgers and cash books. Keys were 
sought and found, and I was admitted. The room 
was bare except for a large table in the center, on 



which were quill pens and an inkstand in which the 
ink had dried up years before. One other thing 
there was, a visitor's book, which like a new diary had 
been started off bravely years before, but in which no 
signature had recently been written. I glanced over 
it and noticed a few well-known names; English names, 
not American, such as one usually finds, for I was off 
the beaten track of the tourist. The roof was leaking 
here and there, and little pools of water were forming 
on the floor. It was as cold as a tomb. I wished 
that a tavern, the "Cock," the "Devil" or any other 
had been just outside as in the old days when Temple 
Bar stood in Fleet Street. The slatternly woman 
clanked her keys; she, too, was cold. I had seen all 
there was to see. The beauty of Temple Bar is in 
the exterior and most of all in its wealth of literary 
and historic association. I could muse elsewhere 
with less danger of pneumonia, so I said farewell to the 
Kings in their niches, who in this suburban retreat 
seemed like monarchs retired from business, and re- 
turned to my cab. The driver was asleep in the rain. 
I think the horse was, too. I roused the man and he 
roused the beast, and we drove almost rapidly back to 
the station, no not to the station but to a public house 
close by it, where hot water and accompaniments were 
to be had. "When is the next train up to London?" 
I asked an old man at the station. "In ten minutes, 



but you'll find it powerful slow." I was not deceived; 
it took me over an hour to reach London. 

As if to enable me to bring this story to a fitting 
close, I read in the papers only a few days ago this: 
"Vice Admiral Sir John Jellicoe was today promoted to 
the rank of Admiral, and Sir Hedw T orth Meux, who 
until now has been commander-in-chief at Ports- 
mouth, was appointed Admiral of the Home Fleet." 
Good luck be with him; accepting the burdens which 
properly go with rank and wealth, he is at this moment 
cruising somewhere in the cold North Sea in command of 
perhaps the greatest fleet ever assembled. Upon the 
owner of Temple Bar, at this moment, devolves the 
duty of keeping watch and ward over England. 

A. E. N. 










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